Friday

deserves to be kissedfor all the innocent lovemissed. For pale sadness dressedwith tears, never blessed by brooding-darkenedyears. Beauty burnsa woman’s face to be kissed before it dissolves in fears, withbarely a trace. Then, when beauty disappears, a woman’s face deserves to be kissed (softly) again (softly) again(softly) again until it returns.

Previously published in the East Coast Literary Review.

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To the Unknown Friend

What I cannot embrace I struggle to find: the stirring in silence the ivory mask of your mind conceals barely from just about everyone's view.

May the searching you do, in virginal solitude, uncover anything unknown but true. Even if the darkening tremors bleeding through you move you to a secret passage unearthing a hidden silent message from someone unknown to just about everyone and you. But wherever

your passage may lead you at your soldier's pace, may your ivory mask dare to bleed through the tremors unearthing barely a trace of you and your dancer's grace. But

even if hope remains unknown or untrue, may nothing, may no one protect you or conceal you from

everything that will move you, unsettle you or even embrace in virginal solitude the ivory mind of your face.

My name is John Kaniecki and this is a cover letter to accompany my poetry. I write poetry for the enjoyment of the art. I believe that a poet must first establish that they can write in rhyme and rhythm and only then move to the more advanced free verse. I have been published by Struggle Magazine, The Blue Collar Review, Burning Books, Jerry Jazz, IWW Newspaper, Protest Poems, Flute, Black Magnolia, Left Curve, She Mom, Whisper, Vox Poetica and others. Though political or moral in nature I write in various forms. My poems have appeared in over fifty outlets.

I have a chapbook of poetry published on Cavalcade of Stars. In addition I have a poetry book entitled "Murmurings of a Mad Man" just out this September.

I have two stories published one in Struggle Magazine and the other in Cavalcade of Stars. I also have a story The Sin of A.D.A.M. published by Witty Bard. Also I have an upcoming book of science fiction stories to be published by Witty Bard.

My chapbook "The Second Coming of Victoria" was a quarter finalist in the Mary Ballard chapbook contest in 2014.

I have been married over nine years to my wife Sylvia. I am a member of the Church of Christ at Chancellor Avenue where I sometimes preach and work on out reach. I worked last as a customer service agent. I am a firm believer in the power of poetry to transform society for the better. The artist I most admire is Woodie Guthrie because he lived what he wrote and what he wrote was wonderful.

I also recently won the Joe Hill Poetry Labor Prize where I read my poem Tea With Joe Hill, in front of a crowd of over six hundred people in Banning Park , Los Angeles .

I currently serve as secretary for Rhyming Poets International and I am a member of the Revolutionary Poet's Brigade.

Ty Spencer Vossler (MFA) currently lives in Oaxaca, Mexico with his sexy BMW (beautiful Mexican wife) and their daughter. Vossler attributes his creative, original and sensuous writing style to the fact that he shot his television twenty-three years ago.

Andrew Hogan received his doctorate in development studies from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Before retirement, he was a faculty member at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, the University of Michigan and Michigan State University, where he taught medical ethics, health policy and the social organization of medicine in the College of Human Medicine.

THE
VEST

Andrew
J. Hogan

The
bus pulled out of the parking lot, thumping over potholes on Ontario
Street, blue smoke bellowing out of its tailpipe. Chuy and Pete
waited until the bus reached Speedway before trying to talk over the
din of clanging metal.

“Bouga,
what’s that smear on your vest?” Chuy said.

“Ain’t
no smear, Bouga, that’s blood what come through the hole.” Pete
wiggled his arm under the oversized vest and stuck his pinkie through
the hole. They both laughed.

“Pangwacker,
the slupper what wore this vest last year took one to the chest,”
Chuy said. Just then the bus backfired and everybody ducked. The
guard riding shotgun next to the driver swung his Uzi around over the
heads of the students, surveying the bus for possible shooters, but
the guard sat down when the students started jeering his
overreaction.

A.J. Huffman has published twelve solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her new poetry collections, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press), A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing), Butchery of the Innocent (Scars Publications) and Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink) are now available from their respective publishers and amazon.com. She has an additional poetry collection forthcoming: A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press). She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2400 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com.

Enjoying the View

Cassie hated to hike alone, but when her boyfriend, Dennis had to delay his flight because of a last-minute deadline at work, she found herself sitting in a romantic hotel room in Hawaii, alone. To escape the onset of depression and boredom, she had had filled her backpack with bottles of water and headed out onto the scenic trails the hotel brochures bragged about.

A half an hour or so into her trip, Cassie happened upon a small waterfall. The breeze coming through the trees was nice, but she was still sweating and decided to cool off. Unsure of the aquatic dangers that might be lurking in the pool at the base of the falls, she maneuvered herself up the rocks. Once behind the waterfall, she could use it as a natural shower, and the distance of the falls from the trail would shield her from any passing eyes.

Cassie had stripped down to her just her bikini bottoms when she heard laughter coming from the trail, a female squeal followed by a husky male laugh. Cassie grabbed her shirt from the rock she had laid it on, held it against her as she leaned closer to the water to see if they were coming her way.

Through the rushing falls, she could see the two figures approach. The man was grabbing at the woman’s bikini strings, as she half-heartedly slapped his hands away. The bottom string was practically untied, and the woman wasn’t doing much to keep her breasts from falling out from the cover of the fabric.

The man grabbed the woman and buried his face in her neck. The woman arched her back, straining to see if anyone was around. Unable to see Cassie behind the falling water, the woman surrendered herself to the man’s advances, wrapped her hands into his hair as he moved from her neck to her now fully exposed breast.

Cassie forgot all about getting dressed as she watched the man suck each of the woman’s breasts, his tongue circling each nipple before his mouth covered it. The woman moaned as her hands disappeared from site.

A moment later the man’s cargo shorts slid to the grass. He gave up his foray into the woman’s cleavage long enough to remove them and his boxer shorts completely. The woman quickly undid the rest of her bikini top, and hurriedly removed her shorts. Once they were both naked, the man dropped to his knees and buried his head between the woman’s legs.

Cassie could feel the familiar tug of arousal in her own groin, and she imagined she was the woman and it was her body the man’s tongue was conquering. She dropped the shirt she had been clutching to her now swelling breasts, ran her hands over her own nipples as she continued to watch the encounter below.

The woman had backed up and was now leaning against a palm tree while the man sucked at her. Her leg over his shoulder, her hands grasped his hair, pushing his tongue deeper as her climax rose, erupted like a volcano.

The man pulled her down on top of him. They kissed playfully for a moment, hands and mouths roaming wildly over each other, completely oblivious to the fact that they were not alone.

By the time the man entered the woman, Cassie had leaned herself back against the rock wall, fingering herself to climax. She could hear the moans coming from below as she stifled her own. Her body kept pace with the two below, until all three came in a rush of erotic release.

Cassie continued to lean against the rock wall as the man and woman dressed themselves, headed back toward the trail. Once they were out of sight, she quickly dressed and headed back to the trail. She couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and call Dennis to tell him all about her secret erotic excursion behind the falls.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.